


this bullet lodged in my chest, covered with your name (i’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor)

by voxofthevoid



Series: here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captain America Steve Rogers, De-Aged Bucky Barnes, Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Angst, M/M, Not Captain America: The First Avenger Compliant, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Size Difference, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: James takes a bolt of white light to the chest. He goes down and doesn’t get back up.A few minutes later, Steve finds a teenage boy passed out in black armor two sizes too big for him.The world’s most notorious wetwork operative is now a sixteen-year-old from the 30s. James was living with Steve, so the boy—who goes by Bucky and looks at Steve with mingled awe and wariness—is determined to be Steve’s responsibility. Natasha looks sympathetic but not enough to save him from his fate. Tony and Strange are bickering over how much of it is magic and how much is science.Sam tries to console him.“It’s temporary,” he murmurs, fingers locked tight around Steve’s wrist. “It’ll be fine, Steve.”Steve believes him.That’s a mistake. The first of many.-Steve falls in love with a ghost—again.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960033
Comments: 224
Kudos: 692





	this bullet lodged in my chest, covered with your name (i’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kocuria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/gifts).



> Fic title from Richard Siken’s “Wishbone” and series title from “Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.” I changed the title from Halsey lyrics to this at the last minute because this fic kinda needs some Siken—and that's a warning all on its own.
> 
> Note those tags. This is half filthy porn and half an angst-train. If you’d like detailed warnings/spoilers, shoot me a message on [my tumblr](https://voxofthevoid.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Art by my wonderful potato: [ko](https://kocuria.tumblr.com/). And this fic is dedicated to her because I damn near killed her with it, and this is how I show my love.

* * *

* * *

This is how it happens: James takes a bolt of white light to the chest. He goes down and doesn’t get back up.

A few minutes later, Steve finds a teenage boy passed out in black armor two sizes too big for him.

-

The world’s most notorious wetwork operative is now a sixteen-year-old from the 30s. James was living with Steve, so the boy—who goes by Bucky and looks at Steve with mingled awe and wariness—is determined to be Steve’s responsibility. Natasha looks sympathetic but not enough to save him from his fate. Tony and Strange are bickering over how much of it is magic and how much is science.

Sam tries to console him.

“It’s temporary,” he murmurs, fingers locked tight around Steve’s wrist. “It’ll be fine, Steve.”

Steve believes him.

That’s a mistake. The first of many.

-

Sam goes back to D.C. Natasha vanishes without a word, as she is wont to do.

 _It must reverse itself_ , says Strange.

 _I can’t do shit, Cap_ , says Tony.

So Steve takes the kid and goes back to their Brooklyn apartment.

“The future,” James—no, Bucky—says in the car, face almost pressed to the window. “This is real.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “It is, kid.”

Bucky scowls at him. The expression is familiar, but it’s unsettling on a face that’s so similar yet so different to that of James. The nose is the same. The hair has the same color and texture. That distinctive cleft chin is there, on a jaw that’s no longer sharp enough to cut glass but instead rounded with baby fat.

It’s like Steve’s looking at a stranger and a friend at the same time. Sort of. They’re complicated, he and James. 

“You’re his handler,” Natasha said before she left, gentle and merciless, well aware of how Steve hates that word. “He’s your responsibility.”

But Steve’s not James’s handler, not the way Peirce or Rumlow was. They didn’t—couldn’t—trust James when he first broke his programming and was brought in, half a surrender, half a capture. Steve had to deal with him because they needed someone who could take the Winter Soldier in a fight and hardly had a surplus of supersoldiers. It helped that Steve was perfectly fine with helping a guy who came perilously close to killing him, at least once it turned out said guy was a brainwashed prisoner of war.

James doesn’t have such restrictions on him anymore. He and Steve are roommates of convenience as much as necessity these days. Steve likes James. A _lot_.

And now James is a kid, and Steve is wildly out of his depth.

-

“We live here?” Bucky asks with naked wonder when they enter the apartment. Steve didn’t miss his keen gaze or shocked gasp at the biometric locks. It’s doubtful if Bucky can open it. The de-aging alone wouldn’t have mattered, but the serum changed them at the cellular level. His DNA now might not be the same as that of James. Steve doesn’t want to ask him to try and have him be disappointed.

And it’s strange that he already cares, but Bucky seems to be a nice kid. He’s adjusting remarkably well to all of this, even though this world and all these people must be strange to him. Terrifying, even. But he’s been calm and focused since he woke, and the only time he broke was when he heard the year and asked about his family.

James Buchanan Barnes left behind two parents and four sisters when he joined the army. He never came back. They never got a body to bury because James never died.

The last of his sisters passed in 2009, half a decade before James came in from the cold. James has never mentioned his family. Steve doesn’t know if he knows, if he cares.

But he knows Bucky does.

“We do,” Steve manages to say, long past when he should have. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, gleefully exploring the place. It’s not a very big apartment, but it’s sizeable enough that two introverted supersoldiers can have their own space—a necessity for a peaceful coexistence.

Bucky is barely half James’s size, but he takes up a whole room with his exuberance. It’s almost blinding, his energy. Steve feels very old, watching him. The only thing he and James have in common, other than the serum coursing through their bodies, is their exhausted commitment to survival. He can see James on Bucky’s face but not in his heart.

Steve knows that’s a good thing. It’s near-impossible for him to picture James as ever having been so carefree, so happy. But it’s good that he was, once, even if Steve doesn’t know how he can ever look James in the eyes again, knowing this grinning kid was turned into a brainwashed weapon and that Steve had a part in it.

Because he didn’t save James, didn’t even know he existed, so this smiling boy died screaming in the ice.

 _It’s not about you_ , he tells himself. James doesn’t care that Captain America didn’t save him at Kreischberg. He barely _remembers_ Kreischberg. And for Bucky, it hasn’t happened yet and never will because this, whether it’s magic or science or some unholy mixture of both, is only temporary.

A piece of who James used to be existing in his place.

Bucky’s at the window, staring out at the evening sky. Steve turns on his heels and tries not to feel like he’s running away from a teenager.

He hesitates at the door to James’s room. He’s never been in here before. He came close on those nights James woke up screaming. Steve called for him from the door, but James only ever told him it was fine. A few times, Steve sat with his back to the door and said whatever came to mind. James never responded, but Steve could hear his heartbeat calm and move closer, could hear James’s back hit the door and slide down. He imagined them mirrored on either side of the door.

Men out of time.

Now, he makes it three steps before he sees the dagger on James’s pillow and the gun on his bedside table. He backs out very quietly and shuts the door.

He turns and almost runs smack into Bucky.

He reaches out on instinct to catch the kid and remembers in the nick of time to dial back his strength. He doesn’t hold back with James, doesn’t have to, but nearly all of his other teammates are fragile. Sam would laugh to hear it and Nat would throw a knife at him. Tony would sputter and Clint wouldn’t care. It’s not that they’re not good fighters or sparring partners; Steve’s just capable of grinding bones to dust with half his strength.

Thor can take him, but Thor’s been off-planet for close to a year now. James is the only other.

And now, he is more delicate than anyone else, a twig of a thing in Steve’s arms.

Big, blue eyes blink up at him from above cheeks tinted pink. Steve realizes abruptly that he’s been holding Bucky is a quasi-embrace while his thoughts chased themselves.

He’s unsettled. Compromised, Nat would say.

“S-Steve?”

Steve lets go and takes a step back, unwittingly ending up with his back against James’s door. Bucky gapes at him, face a blotchy red. His eyes seem darker than James’s.

“Sorry,” Steve says. It comes out rougher than he intends. He tries to soften it with a smile. “Been a long day. You hungry, Bucky?”

Bucky nods hesitantly.

“I’m a shit cook,” Steve says, breathing a little easier. “But takeout is the best part of the twenty-first century. What would you like to eat?”

“Uh—I’ll eat pretty much anything.”

Right. Of course. If someone asked Steve that before the serum and the war, he’d have answered the same. Not that it has changed much now, but he’s developed preferences.

Steve orders Chinese and remembers in the nick of time not to get the usual amount. What’s appropriate for two supersoldiers’ insane metabolism would be downright excessive for one supersoldier and a normal male teenager. He still gets all of James’s favorites—and it’s tricky, knowing James’s favorites because he lets so little show. Steve has to read his likes and dislikes in his microexpressions and what little he voluntarily lets slip.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, yanking Steve out of his thoughts again. “Can I use the bathroom?”

“Of course,” Steve says, startled. “This is your place too, Bucky. Here, I’ll show you.”

There are two bathrooms, both attached to the bedrooms. He takes Bucky to Steve’s room.

“You can sleep here tonight,” Steve says, backing away before Bucky can ask questions.

He’ll go through James’s in the morning and make it civilian-friendly. Tonight, he’ll take the couch. It won’t affect his sleep. Steve’s been awake for almost forty-right hours straight, and he can go more if he must, but he doesn’t have to and doesn’t want to. It took a whole day for Bucky to wake up and another for them to explain what happened and sort it out.

He's bone tired.

Dinner is nice but quiet. Bucky goes bug-eyed at the food and wants to try everything. He has a healthy appetite and a hunger for variety. He’s enthusiastic about what he likes and physically recoils from what he doesn’t. Steve tries to remember if there was even a trace of this happy, glowing boy in James.

There wasn’t. And it’s not Steve’s memory failing him. It is not capable of such mercy.

 _I’m sorry_ , Steve thinks at the bright-eyed boy stuffing his face with schezwan chicken. _I think I helped kill you_.

Bucky’s sleepy and sated after the food. He burps and stares at Steve with a chagrined blush. Steve winks at him, and he doesn’t think his smile reaches his eyes, but Bucky turns a brighter red and ducks his face, not knowing any better.

Steve likes the kid, even as guilt eats at him.

He misses James like a limb.

-

Sleep is good. He’s out like a light the second he lies down and only rouses when the sun is high in the sky. He blinks, slightly disoriented, and takes in his surroundings. The living room’s awash in light. There’s a boy huddled on the armchair, watching Steve.

It takes him a moment to remember.

“Bucky,” he greets, voice thick with sleep. “Have you been awake long?”

Bucky, who started and flattened himself against the back of the armchair when Steve spoke, seems to relax a little.

“Yeah, kinda. Made breakfast. There’s—there’s so much _stuff_ in your fridge.”

That was James, mostly. He didn’t cook every day, but he wasn’t as content as Steve to eat out all the time either. Steve finds that he can’t remember when James started making food. He thinks it was not long after he stopped barricading himself in his room. Whenever he did cook, he made enough for them both. Steve tried to repay him by washing the heap of dishes that inevitably piled up, but it never felt adequate. That’s not something Steve examined too closely, and he’s not starting now.

“Thank you,” he tells Bucky, who looks away.

“Kinda late for breakfast now. It’s almost two. Went cold.”

“I’ll eat it anyway. You want lunch?”

Bucky perks up like a puppy. It’s as good as an answer. Steve laughs, the sound genuine, the sentiment uncomplicated for once.

He calls in an order before he heads to the bathroom. By the time he emerges, the food arrives. Lunch, for Steve, is scrambled eggs and bread followed by pasta. The food Bucky made is cold like he said, but Steve eats all of it. It’s not enough, but he ordered accordingly. Bucky digs into his lasagna with the same enthusiasm he showed last night. Steve is distracted watching him eat and only looks away to avoid Bucky catching him at it.

It’s just—Bucky’s so vibrantly happy in a way James never was. It fascinates and disturbs Steve in equal measure.

“Hey, can we go out?” Bucky asks with his mouth half-full.

“Swallow,” Steve says absently. “Out where?”

Bucky shrugs. He swallows obediently where James would have flipped Steve off without moving a single finger.

“I don’t know. _Out_.” He grins brightly. “I want to see the future!”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat.

“Welcome to the future, Captain,” someone told him, back when we woke up. An agent whose name he never bothered to learn. They sounded happy, excited, like they expected Steve to feel the same.

Steve didn’t. He still doesn’t, sometimes.

But he smiles before Bucky’s bright-eyed enthusiasm can fade.

“Of course,” he says. “We’ll go in a bit.”

Bucky tucks into his food with renewed vigor. Steve picks at his own pasta and ends up putting most of it in the refrigerator. Bucky’s a squirming ball of excitement by the time Steve puts away the dishes, slower than usual because he has no earthly idea how to begin showing Bucky this world. S.H.I.E.L.D gave Steve a bunch of books and, eventually, curated access to the internet. He learned himself how to get rid of the censorship. That’s not what Bucky wants and not what he deserves either.

But looking at his slight frame drowning in clothes that Steve now recognizes as a pair of his own shorts and a t-shirt, he gets an idea.

“We’re going shopping,” he says grimly.

Bucky’s smile doesn’t dim a bit.

-

Steve feels vaguely hunted as he follows Bucky around the shop. It’s not the clothes that terrify him, he’s not that big a stereotype, but the last few times he did this, it was with Natasha, and Steve’s fairly sure he’s traumatized. Natasha takes pride in being _thorough_. Steve shudders at the sight of trial rooms.

He prefers online shopping these days. That would work for Bucky, and he’s sure to appreciate the technology from what Steve’s seen so far, but that would defeat the point of going out and seeing the future.

So here they are, Bucky dressed in the smallest clothes Steve could find after raiding both his and James’s closets. Issue is that they’re both built like mountains while Bucky’s physique is entirely different. He’s almost as tall as James, but instead of James’s heavy bulk, he has a lean, lithe body. His muscles are covered in a layer of soft fat. There callouses on his body are from farm work, not weapons.

A worker’s body, not a warrior’s.

Steve tries not to stare too much. He wonders how long it will be before he gets used to this version of James Buchanan Barnes.

“Why Bucky?” he asks impulsively while James stares uncertainly at the price tag of a polo shirt.

“Oh, uh, Becca—my sister—started calling me that when she was a toddler. Guess she heard my ma call me my full name or something? I don’t remember, I was pretty young too. But it stuck.” Bucky grins at Steve, the expression bright and boyish. “And now I’m Bucky for life. Can’t ever escape.”

But he did.

Steve makes himself grin back. He takes advantage of Bucky’s distraction to add the shirt he was eyeing to the basket, alongside a few others of the same sort in different colors. He thinks they’ll suit Bucky. James preferred blacks and shades of grey, but Bucky seems to like vibrant things. Steve’s an artist, he’s got an eye for color. And anyway, Bucky should have things that suit his personality.

Steve gently herds Bucky towards the trial rooms, swallowing memories of Nat’s terrifying smirks and adding clothes to their cart. When they reach the room, Bucky’s eyes bug out at the amount of clothes they’ve accumulated.

“That’s too much!” he says, voice high enough to attract a few stares. He grimaces, blushing furiously, and says, more quietly, “Steve, I can’t—this is too much. Everything’s so expensive, I can’t—”

“Hush,” Steve says, not unkindly. He understands. “I can afford it. And so can you. Would it help if I said I’ll make your future self pay for it later?”

Bucky narrows his eyes.

“Will you?”

Steve just grins and shovels an armful of clothes on Bucky, gently nudging him towards the rooms.

“Of course not,” he says once Bucky’s out of earshot.

He doesn’t expect Bucky to pop out a minute later, tugging at the hem of a blue, full-sleeved turtleneck.

“Steve?” he asks. “How is it?”

Steve wasn’t expecting Bucky to ask for his opinion.

“Good?” he says, wincing alongside Bucky at the uncertainty in his voice. “No, fuck, sorry, just surprised. It looks good, kid. Suits you. Brings out your eyes.”

Bucky scowls at him, face still pink, but whatever he sees on Steve’s face must set him at ease because he nods and vanishes into the room again. Steve lets out a breath. A passing woman glares at him.

Steve blinks at her, ducking his face on instinct before remembering he’s got his best disguise on. He turns away from her, rubbing his beard, feeling oddly wrong-footed.

Bucky doesn’t show him every outfit, but he comes out several times to solicit Steve’s opinion. It gets easier to give it after the first couple of times. Towards, the end, he starts to enjoy himself, unwillingly identifying with Natasha, not that he’ll ever tell her that.

They buy most of what’s in the cart, even though Bucky tries to protest at least thrice on the way to the counter. But he’s happy, Steve can tell, not that it’s particularly hard to see. The kid wouldn’t know what a poker face is if it bit him in the ass.

“Thank you,” Bucky says shyly, scuffing his toe on the sidewalk. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Steve ruffles Bucky’s hair. It’s so short, nothing like James’s shoulder-length mane. It’s soft, too, with a feathery texture, and Steve takes his hand awake like he got burned and tries not to think about whether James’s hair would feel the same. It’s not like Steve ever touched his hair. Steve has never touched James except in violence, real or play or both.

“It was nothing,” Steve says, aware of Bucky’s stare boring into the side of his face. He scrambles wildly for a distraction. “You like them, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” Bucky sounds surprised. “The future’s got a lot of…stuff.”

Steve barks out a laugh.

“God, tell me about it, kid.”

Bucky scowls up at him.

“M’not a kid.”

Steve grins and doesn’t say anything. Bucky knocks his shoulder into Steve and stumbles to the side. Steve throws out an arm and reels him in before he can crash into anyone.

“The fuck are you made of,” he hears Bucky mumble under his breath. “Brick?”

“Language,” Steve says mildly. “You hungry?”

The answer, it turns out, is always. Steve can relate.

-

They stumble home, happy and well-fed. Steve has to half-carry Bucky the last few-blocks, and it’s not fun balancing several bags’ worth of clothes and a lanky teenager, but he manages.

Once inside, he manages to nudge Bucky to the couch before he lies down on the rug or even the bare floor.

“The future’s great,” Bucky says happily, slurring his words a little. “The _city_ is great.”

“You’ve never been to Brooklyn?” Steve asks, setting the bags by the wall and belatedly remembering his plans to go through James’s room and get rid of the weapons.

“Born here,” Bucky says, sounding a bit more awake. “Moved to Indiana when I was a kid though. Maybe four? Don’t remember much.”

“Huh. I was born here too. Lived here nearly all my life.”

Bucky hums but doesn’t ask questions. Steve’s relieved but confused too. Bucky’s a chatterbox but until now, he’s only asked about safe things. Clothes, food, buildings they passed, changing gender norms—nothing about history, _his_ history.

He knows he fought in a war. He knows he made it to the next century in a manner that, to him, should just be science fiction. It’s impossible that he doesn’t have questions.

Steve leans over the back of the couch and peers down at Bucky’s placid face. He’s got an arm over his eyes and the last dregs of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Maybe Bucky isn’t as different from James as Steve likes to think.

“Buck?” he calls.

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Sleep. I’ll get your room ready.”

“Mmhm.”

Half an hour later, Steve’s respect for James’s creativity has tripled, and he’s also acquired the persistent urge to strangle the man with his own metal arm.

He stares at his bounty—over a dozen knives, half that number of guns, a couple of garrotes, and a very small grenade. He’s glad he locked the room because if Bucky walks in on this, his carefully manufactured ignorance will cease to be very blissful.

In the end, Steve heaps the weapons— _carefully_ —into a fucking cardboard box and carries it over to his own room, creeping soundlessly past Bucky’s sleeping form. He hides it at the very back. It’s the safest it can be. Bucky’s got his own clothes now, there’s no need for him to see Steve’s closet again. Maybe he should get a safe, but well, Steve goes to sleep with his shield propped against the bedframe. He can’t expect James to be any less extreme. The present situation isn’t James’s fault either, but Steve needs someone to direct his ire at.

Maybe, when Bucky reverts to James, Steve will yell at him.

He knows he won’t. He’s never raised his voice to James, and he never will. Steve’s not the sort, for one thing, and James was someone he treated as gently as he could because he would hear nothing of Steve’s apologies but that didn’t kill Steve’s guilt. And when this is over, when the bright-eyed kid a room over vanishes as if he never existed, Steve will need to scream at something, but it won’t be James.

Bucky’s dead to the world when Steve goes to him. He calls his name quietly and gets no response. Patting his cheek just makes Bucky turns his face into Steve’s palm with a soft, pleased sound.

Steve doesn’t have the heart to wake him.

He carries Bucky to James’s bed, tucks the covers around him, and stares down at the sleeping boy for too long, wondering whether Steve will wake tomorrow to find James walking out, dazed and losing two days.

James loses time, sometimes. He hates it more than anything, is angry and aggressive in the aftermath. Steve’s an old hand at weathering those moods.

He turns on his heels and marches out of the room.

-

He wakes suddenly, senses blaring an alarm.

There’s someone in the room with him.

This is usually the point where he grabs the shield and ducks under the bed, but something makes him stay. He realizes, a moment later, than he recognized the intruder before his conscious mind registered it.

Steve holds his breath and closes his eyes and listens to Bucky walk further into the room. He’s trying to be quiet. James doesn’t make any noise unless he wants to, soundless as the shadows creeping across the room, but Bucky’s got a distinct gait and try as he might to sneak in, Steve’s senses are far too sharp for it to work.

He can hear Bucky’s heart, pounding like mad.

Steve can’t imagine what Bucky’s doing in his room until the covers shift.

He speaks then.

“What are you doing, Bucky?”

Bucky yelps, the sound smothered halfway through with a sound like Bucky slapped his hand over his mouth. His heartbeat is going crazy. Steve worries.

“Jesus,” Bucky snaps. “When did you wake up?”

“What are you doing?” Steve repeats calmly. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

Bucky grumbles a bit before answering.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“You were sound asleep last I saw.”

“Woke up,” Bucky says shortly. There’s a waver in his voice. “Couldn’t fall asleep again.”

Steve doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and he can see Bucky hovering on the other side of the bed, one knee on the mattress.

When Bucky speaks again, Steve’s unsurprised at his request.

“Can I—can I sleep here?”

It’s a bad idea, Steve knows immediately. He can’t say why, but he trusts his instincts.

That doesn’t mean he always listens to them.

He thinks of Bucky here, alone in a new place and a new time, torn away from everything he’s ever known. He talked to Tony and Strange in the tower, saw Nat and Sam, but Steve’s the only one he’s interacted with outside of rambling explanations of why Bucky is here. He’s not surprised Bucky has latched on to him.

“Yeah,” Steve says, sighing. “For tonight.”

Bucky’s breath leaves him in a rush.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’ll be, um, I’ll keep to my side.”

Steve says nothing, just closes his eyes and drops off.

-

He wakes to something soft and warm.

He clings to it on instinct, shuffling closer, making a soft, pleased sound when his body slots pleasantly along—

Steve wakes up all at once and damn near throws himself out of bed.

Bucky blinks blearily at him, clearly confused as to why Steve is half hanging off the bed. He’s lying on his stomach, face half-buried in Steve’s pillow. He must have either taken off his shirt before he got into bed or magically lost it sometime in the night because he’s naked to his waist. Steve drags his eyes away from the bared skin, face hot, stomach churning.

“Steve,” Bucky calls sleepily, voice a quiet rumble. “S’early.”

“Go back to sleep,” Steve says, more breathless than he’d like to admit. “I’ll—I’ll make breakfast.”

Bucky blinks again.

“’Kay.”

Steve slides to the floor and stands on strangely weak legs, watching Bucky roll over into the warm spot he left behind. The covers shift, sliding down—

He flees the room.

He uses James’s bathroom, needing a bit of distance from Bucky. The morning was…unsettling. It’s been a long time since Steve shared a bed, but that’s no excuse for what happened. Bucky’s a kid, and for whatever it is worth, he trusts Steve, and he can’t just—

He takes a shower and scrubs himself until he feels raw but still doesn’t feel clean.

He’s grateful that Bucky’s still asleep when he emerges. He doesn’t have the energy for anything complicated, so he makes scrambled egg and toast. He leaves the food on the table, carefully covered, and only pauses long enough to pen a note for Bucky before he goes for his run.

Steve runs for over an hour. It doesn’t help much.

Bucky’s up and about when Steve returns, perched on the couch with breakfast in his lap. He seems to have finished the eggs and is nibbling on his toast. His eyes are wide and fixed on the TV. Some action flick is playing, full of screams and explosions. Bucky seems spellbound. Steve doesn’t remember telling him how to work the TV, but then he spots the manual lying on the couch beside Bucky rather than at its usual place on top of the bookshelf, alongside the manuals for everything in this apartment that warrants one.

Something in Steve softens at the sight.

Smart kid.

Bucky does spare Steve a glance and a grin before he returns his attention to the TV. Steve wolfs down a couple of energy bars and heads for his second shower of the day.

Bucky’s still on the couch when he gets out. Steve happily leaves him to it and locks himself in his room to call Natasha.

“Hey, stranger,” she greets. “How’s mini-James?”

“His name’s Bucky,” Steve corrects.

“Does that make it easier?”

“Make what easier?”

“Him. This. The whole situation. A different name won’t change who he is, Steve.”

“I didn’t say it would,” Steve snaps. “But if he wants to be called Bucky, the least we could do is use his fucking name.”

Natasha’s silent on the other end.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles.

“I had a feeling this would happen,” is all she says. “Maybe Bucky should have gone with Sam.”

Steve doesn’t know what to do with the peculiar blend of relief and rejection that idea evokes.

“I don’t think so,” he says, forcing himself to sound calm. “You said it yourself. He’s my responsibility. And this is his home, even though he’s currently…as he is.”

“Sam wouldn’t get attached,” she says. “And he wouldn’t stew in guilt either.”

“I’m not stewing in guilt,” Steve lies.

“Uh-huh. You’re not looking at him and counting all the ways you failed him. And you’re absolutely not comparing this kid to the Winter Soldier and seeing all the ways you, personally, fucked up.”

“Nat—”

“It doesn’t change anything, Steve,” she cuts in, harsher than she usually lets herself be. “Blame Hydra. Blame Zola. Blame S.H.I.E.L.D, even. But this isn’t on you. And even if it were, it doesn’t change shit. It happened. Bucky’s gone, and James is who we have.”

They’ve had this conversation before, so many iterations of it. Each one wears Natasha’s patience thinner. Sam would be kinder, more understanding, but each time, she’s the one Steve calls.

“I miss him,” Steve says, quietly changing the subject. “It’s strange. We’ve spent weeks apart on missions. But now, it’s like he’s here and not, and I—I miss him.”

“He’ll be back,” Natasha tells him, gentle now, her edges pulled into herself. “It’s temporary. And then you can have your boyfriend back and you two can go back to being sickeningly domestic.”

“He’s not my—we’re not like that. We’ve had this conversation before.”

“We’ve had a lot of conversations before,” she says mildly. “How’s the kid coping?”

That trips Steve up a little.

“I—uh, well?”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“I’m not,” he says honestly. “He seems okay. Likes exploring. Tony and Strange explaining things to him must have helped because he isn’t freaking out very much. He’s watching TV now. Seems fascinated.”

Natasha hums. Her silence gives Steve the nerve to say the rest.

“I’m worried about him. It shouldn’t—he should be freaking out. He should be scared. Right?”

“Maybe he’s hiding it,” she says, and that’s not something that didn’t occur to Steve, but it’s more real from her mouth.

“Shouldn’t I see it?” he asks plaintively.

Natasha laughs. It’s not a mean sound. It’s sad, if anything.

“You know better, Steve.”

He says nothing. He does know better.

“How are you?” he asks abruptly, not changing the topic so much as having exhausted it. “You left pretty quick.”

“I’m working on my tan,” she says. He can hear her grin. “Scram. And if you want to talk…”

She trails off.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me. I’m not your emotional support assassin, Steve.”

She hangs up while he’s still sputtering. He glares ineffectually at the phone even while a smile tries to tug at his lips. He got the message—don’t contact her until she inevitably breaks into his kitchen and finishes his favorite cereal.

He also knows that if needs it, if it’s an emergency, she’ll come. She always will.

-

Bucky spends most of the day in front of the TV. Steve joins him after lunch; rather, he orders lunch and drags Bucky off the couch to feed him and finds himself dragged to the couch afterward. Bucky’s watching a horror movie. Steve’s never seen someone be so delighted to be so terrified. He clutches Steve’s arm hard enough to cut off the airflow and leaves bruises the serum erases moments later.

Steve lets him cling and doesn’t think about the morning.

After that, it’s a science fiction-fantasy blend. Bucky’s in love. Steve considers leaving, but Bucky’s pressed along his side, clutching Steve’s thigh and knocking their shoulders together when he’s particularly excited. Steve opens up a mindless game on his phone and settles in.

They spend the evening like that.

When Steve coaxes Bucky to dinner, his eyes are swollen and still so bright.

“The future,” he says reverently, “is amazing.”

Steve grins into his shawarma.

It vanishes the next second, when Bucky asks, “Does he like it too?”

“Who?” Steve asks, even though he knows the answer.

“Him. Me. The me in this time.”

It’s the first time they’ve explicitly addressed Bucky’s situation instead of coasting through as if this is only an impromptu roommate situation. Steve doesn’t if he’d ever have brought it up himself. He wishes Bucky didn’t.

“Like what?” Steve asks, stalling and not very subtly at that. “The future or the TV?”

Bucky cracks a smile that Steve doesn’t really deserve.

“Both, I guess. Mr. Stark, he said you can’t tell me the details, but he said he—me—was frozen and came here and—this should be fine, right? Asking if he likes it here.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. He stares down at his half-empty plate, thorny tendrils of guilt wrapped around his pounding heart. He thinks of all the things Bucky isn’t saying. The future is a technological marvel, but his whole family is dead. He’s alive and young in 2016 because he was frozen, but he doesn’t know why or how, and they can’t tell him.

Steve doesn’t know what to say, but he can’t not say anything.

“I think so. These days, yes. I think he does. He didn’t at first. He hated it, hated…everything.”

“Even you?” Bucky asks before Steve can say more. It startles Steve into looking at him, and the sight of Bucky’s guileless blue eyes burns him to his soul.

“Especially me, kid.”

Natasha wasn’t the only one who called Steve James’s handler.

But it’s been good for the last year or so. They’re used to each other. Steve might tentatively say he’s James’s favorite teammate.

“But he lives with you,” Bucky says, frowning. “And you—you like him, right?”

Steve tries not to show his surprise. He doubts he succeeds.

“What makes you say that?” Steve asks. Bucky’s face falls immediately, so he hastens to explain. “No, I’m not saying you’re wrong, I do like him. Just curious why you thought so.”

Bucky shrugs.

“You like me. And you look at me like—anyway, figured it’s because I’m him.”

Steve takes a moment to vehemently wish that they sent Bucky with Sam after all. But even as he does, he knows he doesn’t mean it, that he wouldn’t have let it happen. Or he would have and followed them both to DC.

“I’d have liked you on your own merits, Buck,” he says, his own ears heating in response to the sudden red on Bucky’s cheeks. “I _do_. But yeah. I like Ja—him. He’s my friend.”

“Are you his friend too?”

 _Christ_ , this kid,

“I like to think so.”

That was the best you could get, with James. Over two years and half the time, Steve still doesn’t know where he stands with him. But he trusts James not to knife him in his sleep and to watch his back with a rifle during missions. That has to be enough.

Bucky nods and goes back to his food. He doesn’t look like he has run out of questions, but he doesn’t ask any more.

After food, he stays to help Steve clean up and doesn’t seem inclined to return to the TV.

“Done watching?” Steve asks.

“Um, yeah. My eyes kinda hurt.”

“ _Bucky_.”

Bucky shoots him a sheepish grin. He’s stupidly young. James’s eyes screamed that he was never a child, never innocent, but that’s so patently untrue when Bucky’s right here, burning bright and untouched by violence.

Steve looks away.

Later, he leaves Bucky yawning in the kitchen and goes to the bathroom. He emerges to find Bucky standing in his doorway, biting his lips and staring at the ground.

“Bucky…”

“Please,” he says. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Steve can’t say no to him. He wishes he could.

-

He’s not confused when he wakes this time. There’s someone warm and soft sprawled over him, a body far slighter than his own lying half on top of his. Steve’s reminded, inappropriately, of the handful of men and women he took to bed since he woke up in this century, few and far in between. Even fewer stayed the night. He doesn’t remember tangling so helplessly with any of them in sleep. Whenever another’s skin touched his, he woke and put space between them, and in the morning, he pretended to be sleep when they picked up their clothes and left, often with a careless goodbye.

He's never bought anyone home since James moved in, first because James was homicidal more often than he wasn’t, and then—and then he just didn’t.

That’s no excuse for complacency.

He tries to wriggle out from under Bucky. He tightens his limbs around Steve like a stubborn octopus. He’s shirtless again, though Steve distinctly remembers him wearing one of Steve’s t-shirts when he climbed into bed, crossing arms swallowed by the extra swathe of fabric and tilting his head as if daring Steve to mention the whole new wardrobe they got for Bucky.

Steve wisely opted for silence.

And now, he is stalling in the privacy of his own mind.

He tries, again, to extricate himself from Bucky’s hold. It’s as fruitless as before, and when he struggles a little harder, Bucky makes a displeased noise and shifts, and Steve freezes, heart racing all of a sudden.

Bucky stirs but doesn’t wake. Steve lets out a slow breath and resigns himself to his fate.

He closes his eyes, and he thinks he can’t possibly fall asleep like this, that these few hours of rest will have to see him through what’s sure to be a torturous night and an awkward morning, but he’s out almost as soon as that thought is complete.

-

He jolts awake; it’s daylight, and Bucky’s under him now, half-trapped under Steve’s bulk and wide awake.

Steve meets blue eyes that are a shade darker than usual and tries to throw himself off the bed, much like yesterday. But Bucky tightens his grip, and that’s when Steve even notices that the kid’s got both arms around Steve in a loose embrace that’s not so loose anymore. Steve could shake him off without even trying.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t, not even when Bucky runs his hands up Steve’s back, the warmth of his palms branding Steve even through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

“Kid,” Steve breathes, “don’t.”

“Not a kid,” Bucky says quietly. “I keep telling you.”

“You’re _sixteen_.”

“Still not a kid.”

“I’m old enough to be your father.”

Bucky cracks a smile, which is hardly the reaction Steve was hoping for. One of Bucky’s hands slide into his hair, nails scraping the scalp, and Steve grits his teeth against electric bursts of pleasure. He shifts and sucks in a harsh breath when he realizes precisely which parts of him are pressed against Bucky.

Bucky’s smile turns distinctly smug.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s morning, just the way his body’s wired, but then Bucky moves under him, legs spreading, one thigh slotting more firmly between Steve’s legs and it’s all he can do not to grind down and _take_.

“Come on,” Bucky says, fist clenched in Steve’s hair, trying to pull his head down.

Steve shakes his head.

“I can’t, Buck.”

“You want to,” Bucky says, pressing his thigh harder against Steve’s erection.

Steve locks his whole body, shaking with the tension.

“Doesn’t matter,” he grits out. “Bad idea.”

“Says who.”

“ _Bucky_.”

Bucky’s unbothered. There’s a stubborn jut to his chin and a fire in the depths of his eyes. Steve can’t look away, but he should. He’s not moving, but he should.

“Wanted you from the second I saw you,” Bucky says, voice a low murmur. “Didn’t think I had a chance, Jesus, look at you. But you do, don’t you? You want _him_ anyway.”

Steve’s stunned speechless.

It’s one thing for Natasha to figure it out. Another entirely for Bucky to realize something Steve doesn’t admit even to himself half the time. He wonders if James knew too, if he cared, if he was flattered or revolted or indifferent.

“I—I don’t…”

Bucky’s having none of it. He rolls his body, and he’s a tiny slip of a thing, pinned under Steve but he squirms around like a madman, and it would be fine if he were trying to get free, Steve would gladly let him go, but he’s writhing against Steve, rubbing their bodies together, leg sliding warm and firm against where Steve’s cock is tenting his boxers.

He buries his fist in the pillow beside Bucky’s head and rips straight through the down. Bucky gasps, but it’s not fear that makes his pupils eat up the gleaming blue of his eyes.

“You’re strong,” Bucky gasps as if this is a revelation. His hands are on Steve’s back again, both of them, running over the span of it. Steve hisses when they slide down to cup his ass and further down over the backs of his tensed thighs. “Fuck, you’re so strong.”

Bucky’s heat sinks through his skin and hooks into his soul.

And he can still move away, it would be so easy, but he doesn’t, heart thumping, gut churning.

“Bucky,” he calls weakly. “Kid, don’t—Christ.”

“You like that?” Bucky tilts his head coquettishly, and it’s affected but no less effective for it. “I do. You could hold me up and fuck me, couldn’t you?”

Steve gives up, gives in. It’s not inevitability. It’s a choice and it eats at him, even as he grabs Bucky’s chin with a hand and crushes their mouths together in a hard, frantic kiss.

Bucky moans sweetly into it, lips parting. Their mouths are rank from sleep, but Steve licks into him anyway, a guilty thrill crawling down his spine at how Bucky surrenders his whole body to it, clinging to Steve with fingernails as he goes limp under him.

Steve tears his mouth away, panting. Bucky’s flushed, staring up at Steve with hearts in his eyes.

“Please,” he says dazedly. “Jesus, Steve, please.”

“What do you want?”

Steve doesn’t mean to ask that, but he does, it’s out there, and Bucky shudders delicately under him.

“Touch me,” he says.

He’s moving, Steve realizes, hips writhing under Steve, trying to rub up against him. His cock’s a hard line against the side of Steve’s thigh. All he’d have to do is shift a little and they’d be grinding on each other. It’s madness.

“Where?” Steve asks because he needs to hear it.

Bucky blushes harder. He’s pretty, so pretty it hurts, and Steve’s burning in hell for this.

He doesn’t mean to say that either, but he does. Bucky looks startled for a second, but then he just grins.

“I’ll make it worth it,” he says, batting his eyelashes, and it’s ridiculous and Steve has to kiss him.

“Oh,” Bucky gasps when they part. “Steve, _Steve_.”

“Where,” Steve growls, gut clenching when the sound makes Bucky shiver, “do you want me to touch you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, not with his words. He runs his hand back up Steve’s back and along his shoulder, trailing uncertain fingers down to the fist Steve has kept buried in the ruptured pillow. He lets Bucky brush cotton from his knuckles and guide it down their tangled bodies. He doesn’t dare breathe when Bucky presses his hand to the bulge between his legs.

He’s wearing shorts, one of a pair Steve got him earlier. They’re loose, the fabric thin. Bucky’s cock is warm under his palm.

Steve curls his finger, and Bucky moans, trembling now, just from this.

“Kid,” Steve says helplessly. Bucky’s eyes flash open, but they’re heated, not indignant. “ _Bucky_ , fuck.”

“Please,” Bucky gasps, and it comes so easy to him, begging. “Touch me, touch me, please.”

Steve doesn’t have it in him to tease. He already doesn’t know how he’s ever going to look in a mirror again.

He tugs Bucky’s shorts down, and he doesn’t mean to, but his head’s a mess and his body’s too hot, and control is a distant thing. Cloth tears under his grip. Bucky swears, loud and shocked, and his hips buck up, cock bouncing, brushing the side of Steve’s wrist. It doesn’t even take effort to pin him. Steve grips the sharp jut of his hipbone and presses down, and Bucky’s muscles turn liquid under him.

He's so easy, so young.

When Steve takes him in hand, his fist swallows the length of his cock.

Bucky’s watching, head tilted down and to the side, eyes wide open. He groans at the sight, a low, gutted sound. His cock drips precome on Steve’s palm, and he can tell, already, that it won’t take much.

He starts to stroke. He keeps it slow, gentle, because there’s something about Bucky that makes him want to be sweet, kind, take his time. Maybe it’s his wide eyes, dark with want and fixed on where his cock is hard and leaking in Steve’s grasp. Or maybe it’s the trust, the way he’s half-buried under Steve and content to stay there, melting against his body and moving only to chase pleasure.

Maybe Steve’s just crazy.

“Oh,” Bucky breathes when Steve teases the foreskin back and rubs his thumb over the exposed head. “Feels good, so good…”

He trails off, mouth open now, lips red from his teeth. Steve leans in and sucks the lower one into his mouth, swallowing Bucky’s moan. His cock twitches in Steve’s grip, and it’s so wet now, precome slicking the easy slide of his palm up and down the length of it. Bucky turns his head clumsily into the kiss, and he’s panting, whining, shaking apart so slowly.

“Easy,” Steve says, speeding up the pace, just a little, nudging him closer to the edge. “I’ve got you, let go, it’s alright.”

Bucky breaks with the softest cry, Steve’s name shuddering on his tongue. His cock pulses in Steve’s hand, come filling his fist, dripping out from between his fingers. Bucky’s mouth burns hotter, tongue sliding wetly against Steve’s.

He kisses Bucky through it, holds him gently, and when he slumps, spent and shaking, Steve rolls off him. He wipes his hand discreetly on his boxers. It’s going to need a good scrubbing anyway, the inside wet with Steve’s precome.

They lie side by side, Bucky coming down from his high, Steve just…existing, thinking desperately of nothing.

If this were a movie, the shot would end here. Steve aches for the simplicity of that.

But this isn’t a movie, and time’s a river.

Bucky pushes himself up, elbows braced under him. He grins down at Steve, still flushed and dark-eyed, and Steve can’t smile back. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, and Steve doesn’t manage to be wary of that until it’s too late. He closes his eyes for a moment of respite, to collect his scattered thoughts, and next thing he knows, Bucky’s slight weight is settling over his calves and there are fingers under his waistband.

“Bucky,” he gasps, eyes snapping open. “What are you—”

Bucky eases Steve’s boxers down, just enough to free his cock. It springs free, and Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Shit,” he mumbles, “you’re big.”

“Bucky!”

Bucky blinks and drags his eyes up to Steve’s face. Whatever he sees there makes his expression set into stubborn lines. It would take nothing to throw Bucky off him, just like it would have taken nothing to roll away from him or break his grasp or any number of the wise, _moral_ things Steve could have done.

“Steve,” Bucky returns evenly. “I’m going to suck your dick now.”

Steve brain short-circuits a little.

“You—you don’t have to—”

That’s as far as he gets before Bucky bends down and licks a wet stripe down Steve’s length. He chokes on his protest, pleasure searing his veins. It’s all he can do to lock his muscles tight and keep still as Bucky works him with little kitten licks and longer, wetter swipes of his tongue, all exploratory.

He's teasing, Steve realizes once he gathers himself enough to think a little. Bucky’s got a smirk dancing at the corners of his mouth and eyes that flick up to gauge Steve’s reaction every other second. Steve snarls soundlessly. Bucky catches the expression, a little tremor going through the body perched on Steve’s.

“You can touch my hair,” Bucky says, eyes lowered coyly. “I like it.”

Steve doesn’t have enough time to consider the implications of that before Bucky returns his mouth to his cock. And this time, he doesn’t tease, just opens his mouth and takes Steve _deep_.

Steve groans at the wet heat over his head and shudders when more of his cock disappears into Bucky’s mouth. He doesn’t take all of it, can’t, has to pull back when the head hits the back of his throat, but even as he coughs and pulls off, he’s grinning, cheeks flushed and eyes bright as he dives back in. It’s a slicker slide this time, wet and hot and _wet_ , Bucky’s tongue fluttering along the underside as he hollows his cheeks and sucks.

Steve’s got fire in his blood, trying to tear through his veins.

He doesn’t make the conscious decision to touch Bucky, but he does, fingers sliding into messy brows hair and fisting tight. Bucky groans and drives his mouth harder down on Steve, stuffing himself with cock.

It’s a filthy thought, clinging like oil to the insides of Steve’s skin, but it’s true. Bucky sucks cock like he’s starving for it, cramming it down his throat and choking on it with eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

Steve should still stop him. He grips Bucky’s hair tighter, pulls, and when his cockhead pops free of Bucky’s slick, swollen lips, Steve bucks his hips and slides back into his open, hungry mouth.

Bucky’s eyes flutter shut with a moan that trembles up Steve’s cock. It throbs with heat, close already. Steve’s been wound tight from the moment he woke with his morning wood pressed to Bucky’s thigh, and between Bucky’s ravenous enthusiasm and warm mouth, it takes little to drag him to the edge.

“Bucky,” he grits out, a warning packed into the name.

Bucky opens his eyes a slit and meets Steve’s, one side of his mouth lifting in a crooked grin. He opens wide and takes Steve deep, and Steve clenches his hand in Bucky’s hair and sucks in a breath, and he tries to hold back but doesn’t last long before the heat in his gut spirals out of control.

He fucks helplessly into Bucky’s mouth, once, twice, and comes. Nails bite into his hips, the pain grounding in the sudden torrent of pleasure. Bucky clings to him and tries to swallow, grunting around Steve’s dick. The wet slide of Bucky’s tongue over his softening cock is almost more than Steve can take. Almost. He shakes apart in Bucky’s mouth and comes down in it too, the welcoming warmth of him now comfort, not enticement.

He pries his eyes open when he slips out of Bucky’s mouth, catching Bucky wiping his mouth on his bare arm. It doesn’t quite clean the come and drool stuck to his chin. Some of it has trickled down his throat, their gleaming trails making Steve swallow. It takes him a beat too long to look away.

Bucky meets his eyes and grins wide.

-

Breakfast is a stilted affair. The only reason Steve’s not hiding in the bathroom is that Bucky deserves better. The kid’s happy, so utterly oblivious to Steve’s discomfort that it’s clear it’s deliberate. Perversely, Steve is grateful for that. It gives him the time he needs to get stitch the edges of his head back together, to scoop all his thoughts and dump them back into the sieve his mind has become.

He couldn’t _think_ , earlier. He moved on autopilot in the aftermath, wrangling limbs that were still buzzing from his orgasm. He took Bucky to the bathroom and wiped him down, and the two of them brushed their teeth side by side. Bucky was humming, Steve realizes, over an hour too late. He doesn’t know the song. Bucky made breakfast too, and all Steve did in that time was sit at the table and stare at his hands.

Christ, he’s useless.

He manages to choke down the last of his pancake. He finds that he can’t recall how much he ate. Bucky served him, and his plate is empty, so he must have eaten enough.

When Bucky tries to take the plate from him, Steve grabs his wrist.

Bucky makes a small, surprised sound and Steve lets go as if burned.

“I’ll do it,” he says gruffly. “You can…go watch TV or something.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, just like the rest of this morning after they left bed. He’s usually a chatterbox. He always has questions. It’s unsettling, his silence. Steve doesn’t look at Bucky as he collects the dishes and starts to wash them. After a few minutes, Bucky sighs and stops hovering.

Steve grimaces. The plate in his hand breaks in half.

-

Bucky’s dutifully watching TV when Steve gathers the nerve to venture into the living room. But it’s clear from the first glance that he’s not seeing or hearing a thing. Bucky likes to watch TV either huddled in way that hurts Steve spine to look at or sprawled lengthwise along the couch, taking up more space than someone his size should be able to.

He’s sitting now, feet on the floor and arms on his thighs. He’s staring blankly ahead.

A fresh wave of guilt threatens to drown Steve. He shakes it off before it can paralyze him and walks over to Bucky.

Bucky damn near jumps out of his skin when Steve lays his hand on his shoulder. Wild blue eyes meet his. He can hear the frantic thumping of Bucky’s heart.

“Sorry,” Steve says awkwardly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky chokes out, voice faint and breathless. He clears his throat. “I’m fine.”

“Can I sit?”

Bucky nods, shock morphing into confusion. Steve’s heart throbs painfully when it shifts into wariness. The aggressively obtuse façade Bucky put on until now must be taking its toll.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says, stomach sinking at Bucky’s pinched expression. “Bucky, about what happened—”

“You’re sorry, it’s a mistake, it can’t happen again,” Bucky recites dully, one eyebrow arched. “That it?”

Steve says nothing. He doesn’t have to. Bucky’s face grows darker with every passing moment. It’s not the petulant rage of a boy denied what he wants. That would be easier to handle than the quiet devastation Bucky tries—and fails—to rein in with teeth on his lips and rapid blinks of his lashes.

Steve has seen this expression in its even fainter incarnation in James’s face, on mornings after nights where even Steve’s ramblings couldn’t reach James, after missions where James had to fight past the code words thrown at him by desperate Hydra agents.

It hurts that Steve’s the cause of it this time.

“Bucky, it’s not—I care about you,” Steve says helplessly. “Please. You know that.”

Bucky wipes his eyes on his sleeve. His whole face is red, his lower lip trembling, and Steve wants to look away, give him a semblance of privacy, but finds that he can’t.

He raises his hand to Bucky’s face instead, gently rubbing at the tear tracks. Bucky mouth wobbles. Steve takes his whole face in his hands, and this is—fuck, this is counterproductive, what is he _doing_ —

“At least tell me why,” Bucky says, voice rougher than usual but surprisingly steady.

“Bucky, you’re half my age.”

“So were half the men whose dicks I’ve sucked, Steve, you’re not fuckin’ special.”

Steve goes cold all over.

“Did they—were you—”

“What?” Bucky frowns. Something of his thoughts must show on Steve’s face because Bucky blanches. “I wasn’t forced! God, why would you just—not like I have a lot of choices, alright? It’s not like here, this…time. And anyway, I like it.”

“Sucking dick?” Steve asks, mouth working on autopilot. “Or older men?”

Bucky is scowling now.

“ _Both_.”

Steve doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. He stares mutely at Bucky whose scowl grows deeper by the minute.

“Gonna tell me I shouldn’t?”

“Huh?” Steve shakes himself out of it. “No, I—it’s your life.”

And Steve would be one hell of a hypocrite telling Bucky what to do and not do with his body, considering the kind of shit he got up to in Brooklyn. Volunteering to be Erskine’s guinea pig wasn’t an isolated incident so much as one in a series of reckless decisions fueled by a maelstrom of emotions Steve still hesitates to try and unravel.

“Then why do you keep telling me to stay away from _you_?”

Steve drops his hands to Bucky’s shoulders and very valiantly does not shake him. Then, he tries to answer and finds that he can’t find any words.

It’s not the age.

Well, it’s not just the age.

Steve stares into Bucky’s blazing blue eyes, the shape and color so familiar, the expression in them anything but. Bucky’s vibrancy threatens to choke him. It’s obvious, isn’t it, what Bucky’s asking and what Steve is desperately trying not to answer.

“Because you’re not him, Bucky. And you’ll—you’ll leave, and he’ll be here, and I don’t know what I’ll do, how I’ll look at him, knowing the things I do about you.”

Bucky doesn’t even seem surprised. That’s the worst thing.

“Doesn’t he want you back?” Bucky asks tightly. “Can’t imagine it. I would have.”

Steve closes his eyes and takes a deep, grounding breath.

“James and I aren’t like that. We’re friends. And even that took us a long time.”

“But you want him.”

Steve has to swallow twice before speaking.

“I do.”

It’s the first time he’s admitted that to someone. Even in his own mind, he shies away from this so often. Steve is used to not getting the people he wants. There was Peggy in the war, and they were doomed from the start and a part of them both knew it. There was Sam, and it wasn’t like there wasn’t a spark, but Sam was devoted to the memory of Riley and if that ever changes, it won’t even matter because Steve’s too far gone on James.

Bucky’s staring at him curiously.

“And you want me,” he says, not quite a question but edged like one.

Steve doesn’t lie.

“I do.”

“Because I’m him.”

He’s not so quick to answer this time. He knows the truth in his heart but putting it to words is a whole other ordeal. It would probably be easier to lie. Bucky would be hurt, but it would be better in the long run. He won’t be here long anyway. _Leave_ was the kindest way Steve could phrase it. Bucky will fade into nothing like he never existed to begin with, these memories fading with him.

But he can’t look this boy in the eye and lie. Steve’s not that noble, not so great a martyr.

“No, Buck. You’re nothing like him.” He grimaces. “That came out wrong. You’re similar. But James is James. You’re you.”

“How different can we be? We’re the same person.”

Steve looks down and keeps quiet. Bucky gets the hint after a moment.

“Oh. One of those things you can’t tell me about.”

Steve nods. There’s more silence.

“It’s not just freezing, is it? Whatever it is, the reason I’m still alive—it’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Maybe we should’ve just said you were a spry hundred-year-old man.”

Bucky doesn’t dignify that with a response. Steve swallows a thousand, pointless platitudes and settles for the unembellished truth.

“Yeah, kid. It’s bad.”

“And you’re not going to tell me.”

Steve looks at Bucky. He’s staring ahead again, eyes fixed resolutely on the spot in the wall. The TV’s still playing; colors shudder and shift in Bucky’s irises. Steve takes the remote and turns it off.

“It won’t change anything, telling you,” Steve says softly, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Bucky. “Not for the better and not for the worse. It would just cause you pain. And Bucky, I don’t want to cause you any more pain.”

Bucky jerks and whips his head around, staring wide-eyed at Steve. It’s his turn to wipe wet eyes on his sleeve, but he doesn’t let any more tears fall. Captain America cannot cry, and Steve Rogers never liked to let anyone see his tears. The only exception died when he was eighteen.

“I don’t want to,” Steve repeats more calmly. “But if you ask, if you want to know, I’ll tell you.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a while. He doesn’t look away either, searching Steve’s face for—for whatever it is that Bucky wants to find. The stalemate ends as quietly as it began. Bucky sighs, deflating with his exhale. He leans in a little, and Steve slides his arm around Bucky’s shoulder, drawing him in. Bucky curls into him, fisting a hand in Steve’s t-shirt.

“No.”

“Buck?”

“No, I don’t want to know.”

Steve’s floored. He assumed—he was bracing to tell Bucky everything, fully aware that no amount of mental preparation would lessen the damage on either of them.

“Are you sure?”

He could hit himself for asking, but he has to. Bucky chuckles, but there’s no humor in the sound. He hunches deeper, burrowing closer to Steve who draws him in, wrapping both arms around Bucky like that will keep him safe.

“I’m curious,” Bucky admits. “So curious. But I—I don’t have much time here, right? And I think, I mean—I think I just want to be happy. And if me knowing won’t change anything, then I don’t want to know what put that look on your face.”

“It’s not about me, Buck. I can handle it.”

Bucky snorts.

“I bet you can. S’about me too. I want to just enjoy our time together. See the city. Eat great food. Watch more TV. That alright?”

“I—of course. Anything you want, Buck.”

Bucky stills in his arms. Trepidation churns in Steve’s gut.

“Anything?” Bucky asks quietly.

“Bucky…”

Bucky raises his head. They’re close now, closer than they should be, faces an inch away. Kissing distance.

“You want him, I know. But you want me too. And I want you. So much, Steve, you don’t even know. So why can’t we?”

Steve, for some reason, laughs. It’s a helpless sound, half hysterical.

“Why is it a bad idea to sleep with the sixteen-year-old version of my friend whose relationship with me is complicated as it is?”

It’s a mindfuck of a sentence. Bucky purses his lips, unimpressed and annoyed.

“I’m not just the sixteen-year-old version of your friend. I’m _me_. You said it too.”

This conversation is going in circles. Steve wonders why he’s not just breaking it.

“You are. Still a bad idea, kid.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. Steve can see him tamp down on the anger, and it’s curious how alike he and James are in this. Steve has never considered whether James’s level-headedness is an inherent trait. He can see it now though. Bucky doesn’t force it down under a blank face and a single arched eyebrow the way James does. He’s got fire in his eyes and a snarl at the corner of his mouth, and his voice, when it comes out, is quietly furious.

“Fine. It’s a bad idea. I get it. Not even arguing much.”

Steve tries not to let his surprise show. It’s not the only thing he’s feeling, but he doesn’t poke at that too much, not when it’s clear Bucky’s gearing up for more.

“Does it matter?” Bucky asks.

“What?”

“Does it matter that it’s a bad idea.”

“I…”

Steve doesn’t even know what to say.

Bucky straightens, pulling away from Steve, but before he can react to the loss—with relief or disappointment, he doesn’t know—Bucky’s scrambling into his lap, pushing Steve against the back of the couch and straddling him. He settles there like he belongs, arms draped over Steve’s shoulders.

“I don’t want to know about him. Your James. I don’t even want to know why it’s so complicated, you and him. But I want you. Want this. And if you tell me no this time, I will stop. I promise. But, Steve, please—don’t say no. I really don’t want you to say no.”

Steve’s hands are on Bucky’s waist, squeezing tight. He’s a little thing, nothing at all in Steve’s grasp. It makes him feel like a pervert. He doesn’t let go.

“Okay,” he says roughly. “I won’t say no.”

There’s a second where Bucky looks stunned, like he didn’t expect that to be Steve’s answer at all. Then a smile breaks out, bright and blinding, turning the tight, somber lines of his face into something sweeter, _younger_.

Steve chokes down a bitter surge of guilt.

“You mean it?” Bucky asks, still beaming, happy just from this, and Steve doesn’t deserve this, he shouldn’t—

“Yeah. Yeah, Buck, I do.”

Bucky doesn’t lean in so much as drop his body against Steve’s, slumping against his chest and bumping their noses together. In an instant, he’s a breath away, and Steve’s blood warms alarmingly.

“Kiss me,” he says, half demand, half plea.

Steve slides his hands up Bucky’s sides, relishing the way he sucks in a breath and shudders. Bucky’s hair is ruffled from sleep and Steve fisting it in the morning. He runs his hand through the mess, savoring Bucky’s pleased hum. He trails his fingers over the planes of Bucky’s face, the curve of his jaw and the soft shell of his ear, the fragile skin under his eyes and the cleft of his chin. He watches the flutter of his long, dark lashes and the quick, darting touch of his tongue to his parted lips.

He memorizes every moment of it.

Then he curves his hand around Bucky’s nape and pulls him in, swallowing his quiet gasp.

Steve kisses him.

-

Bucky’s the one to wriggle free of their tangled limbs, nearly falling off the couch in the process, and declare, with gleaming eyes and kiss-swollen lips, that they’re going to go out.

“We are?” Steve asks, bemused and a little dazed too.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle with the force of his shit-eating grin.

“We are,” he says. “Come on. You’re supposed to show me the future. TV’s great, but so’s the city and the food, and I wanna be _out_.”

And just like that, Steve is being steamrolled into proper clothes and swept out the door. It’s not until they’re a few blocks over that he even registers the full situation. When he does, he laughs.

“What?” Bucky asks, side-eyeing him.

“Nothing,” Steve says, thinking of another pair of bright eyes and dark curls. “Seems I have a type, that’s all.”

Bucky’s curiosity is live in the air between them, but that’s a can of worms Steve’s not opening just yet, so he just slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulder and speeds up, grinning when Bucky swears and stumbles and wrestles free of Steve’s grasp.

They wander a lot. Steve offers some of the more tourist-y suggestions people gave him when he came out of the ice, but Bucky just hums, disinterested. He seems happy as a clam to just walk around, watching the buildings, watching the people. The wind up in a park, eating hotdogs on the bench while Bucky turns his bright-eyed interest to the other park-goers. Steve slips into a light doze.

“Steve,” Bucky mumbles after a while. “Look.”

He nudges Steve in the direction of what caught his interest. It’s a family of four, having a picnic. The kids are young, one barely old enough to walk steadily, and the parents are two women, holding hands and leaning on each other. As Steve stares, one of them kisses the other on the mouth, an easy, unthinking gesture.

He can’t help his smile. He looks away, back at Bucky, who’s still staring at the couple with wide, entranced eyes.

“Buck?”

Bucky blinks and brings his eyes back to Steve. He grins, but it wavers at the edges.

“I really like the future.”

There’s a lump in Steve’s throat, turning his voice hoarse when he speaks.

“I’m glad, Buck.”

Bucky goes back to people-watching. Steve watches him surreptitiously, hyperaware that they’re in public. He’s got a full beard and baggy clothes that hide his physique. It’s usually enough to make people’s eyes pass over him, not connecting Captain America’s clean-shaven jawline with a scruffy, hulking blond in an oversized hoodie. Still, he’s relieved when Bucky deems it time to move on. They walk side-by-side, arms brushing, and it’s a flash of a thought, a whim, that makes Steve pull Bucky to a stop before they exit the park.

“Want to take a picture?”

“What?”

Steve takes out his phone, opens the camera. It’s set to selfie mode, which Steve mostly uses to take silly pictures of himself to send to Sam and Nat. He shows it to Bucky and puffs up in pride when Bucky lights up like a Christmas tree.

“Jesus and Joseph,” he breathes, lips barely moving.

“Come here,” Steve says.

Bucky’s still wide-eyed and stunned in the picture. He’s malleable. They take a few, and it’s more than Steve has indulged in with anyone who’s not a fan. Nat prefers to take pictures of things, not people, and Sam does what Steve does, sending him shots of his pretty face half lathered in foam or gaunt from a full day spent babysitting his niblings.

But this—Steve almost doesn’t want it to end.

-

They come home in a cab, Bucky sprawled on the backseat and cradling his full belly.

“I feel pregnant,” he says in the elevator. “I ate so much. Why did you let me eat so much?”

“What am I, your father?”

“Ew. Don’t even start.”

Inside, Bucky makes a beeline for the couch, stripping his shirt off on the way. He collapses on it with a long, drawn-out groan. Steve enters at a more sedate pace, locking the door behind him and trying not to feel the teeth of his own remark.

Bucky’s sprawled on the couch, staring mournfully at his bulging stomach. He abruptly reminds Steve of Clint. He snaps a picture, glad he set the shutter sound to silent, though Bucky still catches him at it, scowling without any real heat.

“Why?” he asks plaintively.

“Posterity,” Steve says. He doesn’t dare think more about it. “You gonna stay there or should I roll you to bed, your highness?”

Bucky waves a hand at him.

“You go. Do old man stuff. I’ll stay here a while.”

Steve shakes his head but goes willingly when Bucky holds a hand out. He’s pulled down for a hard, clumsy kiss. Bucky grumbles against his mouth, and Steve laughs, tonging his bleeding lip.

“You’re a disaster, kid.”

“And you taste like fish.”

Bucky kisses him again anyway. They both taste like fish, honestly. Steve doesn’t mind either. He pulls away with a pang in his chest. Bucky’s sweet smile just turns it sharper.

“Holler if you need me,” Steve tells him and forces himself to walk away when Bucky hums and closes his eyes.

It’s not very late, barely eight. They had an early dinner, and now Steve’s kind of adrift. Ever since S.H.I.E.L.D fell, Steve has had the dubious honor of organizing his own missions. On paper, at least. Maria calls the shots for the most part. Sometimes, Natasha will wriggle in through his bedroom window and whisk him away for a trip that inevitably ends in explosions. Full-scale missions are less common, usually just smaller teams. The last one was just him, James, Sam, and Nat, and now Steve’s on indefinite leave until—

Until.

He usually spends his downtime split between quality Steve Rogers time and the public circus. He speaks to the media, goes to charity auctions, and tries to use his face and the weight of his shield to do some good that isn’t punching things in the face. Quality Steve Rogers time is typically spent holed up in the apartment, reading or sleeping or watching James exist.

He's not going to go out there and watch Bucky sleep. He has _lines_.

He sketches instead, and he’s not even surprised when the stark lines on the paper resolve into the planes of Bucky’s face. Several other pages hold James’s visage. A few before have been ripped out and burned.

Steve sighs, turns to a fresh page, and this time, instead of Bucky’s grinning face, he ends up with his half-asleep pout.

Steve’s left hand trembles when he turns the page but the pencil in his hand is steady.

He loses hours.

He stops when the door opens, pencil and sketchbook shoved hastily inside a table drawer. If Bucky finds that suspicious, he doesn’t mention it. He looks refreshed when he enters the room, nothing at all like he was when Steve left him. A quick look at the time tells Steve it’s close to one in the morning. No wonder Bucky’s as fresh as a daisy.

“Thought you might be asleep,” Bucky says, sliding causally into Steve’s lap. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Lost track of time. Rested?”

“Very.”

Bucky leans in, his intent unmistakable. Steve slides his hands up Bucky’s bare back and tilts his head into the kiss. Bucky tastes minty fresh. Literally. He smells it, too, and when Steve’s fingers find the edges of Bucky’s hair, they’re damp.

“Took a bath?” Steve asks, pressing the words to Bucky’s jaw.

“Cleaned up,” Bucky says, a nervous edge to his voice. “I thought—I, um, I wanted—”

He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. Steve tries to pull back and looks at his face, but Bucky tucks Steve’s face into his neck, a desperate gesture that Steve allows. If Bucky wants to talk without being looked at, Steve will comply. James also had a tendency to hide his face when he broke open, but that was different—different ways and a different scale, because this sweet physical intimacy wasn’t something he and Steve shared.

He holds Bucky close and pets him gently, waiting.

He can feel Bucky take a deep breath and let it out in a rush.

“I wanted to ask you to fuck me.”

The words nearly run together, but Steve hears each one clearly. His tongue’s a heavy weight in his mouth. He can’t speak, but Bucky’s not done talking yet.

“I haven’t done that. With anyone. Gone all the way with anyone. Men or girls.”

Steve manages, somehow, to make words happens.

“There’s no rush,” he says. “You’re young.”

Bucky pinches the back of his neck.

“I _know_ ,” he says, audibly frustrated. “Not the point. I want it to be you.”

Steve swallows.

“You don’t even know me that well, kid.”

“I know you well enough,” Bucky says. “I know this is what I want.”

Steve pulls back and this time, Bucky lets him.

He’s visibly nervous, but he stares Steve right in the eye, and his ma used to say, when Steve was young, that he’d find someone one day who would match his stubborn streak and then he’d really be in trouble, and he thought she meant people like Tony, but now he’s got the sinking feeling that the secret smile on her face was aimed at people like Bucky.

“Why me?” Steve asks.

It’s not validation he’s seeking. He’s had time, both in the past and in this time, to get used to how his new body made people look at him differently. Before the serum, few girls were interested in an asthmatic ball of spite when there were better prospects, physically and emotionally. The guys in the queer bars looked at his lean frame and big blue eyes and assumed things that weren’t true. He managed well enough, but he had to learn how to navigate desire all over again after the serum.

It wasn’t _easy_ with Peggy, nothing so good was ever going to be, but it was worth it in the end, the fraught conversations and the misunderstandings.

All he’s had in this century are meaningless flings and one-night stands. He never approached anyone he wanted more from because those were his friends and he had a lot to lose.

Bucky is a category all his own. Steve will lose him. It’s inevitable.

Bucky chews on his lips for a long time, eyes on Steve without quite seeing him.

“It’s you,” he says in the end, huffing something that’s not quite a laugh. “You—I don’t even know, Steve. Never wanted anyone the way I want you. Never felt like this. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Felt like what?” Steve says, stroking a finger along Bucky’s cheek.

“Cared for,” Bucky says, ducking his face. The skin under Steve’s thumb is warm. “L-loved.”

“Oh, honey. There will be people. You’re—you’re great, kid. There will be others who care.”

There must have been. Before the war, before Bucky—there must have been _someone_ waiting for James Barnes to come back to their arms.

Bucky’s smile is faint and lopsided.

“You were there first,” he says. “It’s fine if you don’t want it.”

It most certainly won’t be fine. He can see that in Bucky’s eyes, even as he’s putting on a brave face. Thing is—Steve wants it, wants him, and it makes him feel ten-feet tall and like dirt at the bottom of someone’s shoe, both at the same time.

He screws his eyes shut.

Fuck it.

“I want it.” Bucky sucks in a sharp breath, and Steve tightens his arms on him, adding, “You’re sure?”

“You know I am,” Bucky says breathlessly. “Please, Steve.”

Steve kisses him then, long and hot and slow, and doesn’t stop kissing him until Bucky’s kneading his shoulders and keening into the kiss, writhing in Steve’s lap like it’s killing him. Steve breaks away to press his mouth along the line of Bucky’s jaw. He nips at his ear and returns to swallow Bucky’s quiet whine, and he doesn’t let go of his mouth until Bucky’s stopped squirming and just trembles in Steve’s arms, quiet and needy.

Steve rolls them into bed, stripping off his shirt before settling between Bucky’s bent knees. He spreads them wider to make space for Steve, sweet little thing.

He fingers the Bucky’s waistband and meets his darkened gaze.

“Can I?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bucky hisses. His eyes widen, face turning redder when he asks, “Can you—like earlier?”

It takes Steve just a second to understand what he means and another second to tear the shorts off. It rips under his touch like it’s made of tissue paper, and Bucky’s answering groan is soul deep.

His cock springs free, red and flushed. It’s a pretty thing, slender and suited to the sweet slip of a boy trembling under Steve.

He presses his mouth to the side of Bucky’s knee and kisses his way up his thigh. His skin marks easily, and he’s sensitive here, Steve can tell from the quiet, hushed noises and the way his leg quivers. He should have taken his time last time too, spread Bucky out and feasted, but he’s doing it now, making up for lost time. He sucks bruises that stand out livid against the cream of Bucky’s thighs and purposefully avoids his leaking cock in favor of kissing up his stomach. Bucky’s nipples are hard pebbles. Bucky hisses when Steve swipes his tongue over them, but it’s the harsh sting of his teeth that makes him _howl_.

Steve torments him a little, growling when Bucky’s nails rake down his back and grinning with too much teeth when he sobs out Steve’s name.

By the time Steve has his fill, Bucky’s flushed and dazed, legs and chest and throat all varying shades of red. His cock’s a sad sight, so hard it must hurt, precome dripping down its length. Steve kisses Bucky and drinks in his whine. He hasn’t said a word for what feels like hours though it can’t have been anywhere near that long. He likes this, Bucky fuck-drunk, all for him. Steve becomes a little sweeter, kisses chaste and tender, and Bucky moans for that too.

Steve keeps kissing him, even as he stretches out a hand to root around in the bedside table for the slick.

“That’s fancy stuff,” Bucky says when he sees it. He’s nervous and it shows, but he’s excited too, eyes tracking Steve with barely hidden hunger.

“Nothing but the best for my guy,” Steve murmurs, teasing, and grins when Bucky sputters. “Pass me that pillow, hm?”

Bucky does, lifting his hips for Steve to slide it under him. This might be easier if Steve turned him over, and his blood sings at the thought of Bucky on all fours, but at the same time, he wants to see his face, every minute reaction bared to Steve’s eyes. It’s part caution—the last thing he wants is to harm Bucky. But it’s desire too, a burning need to see exactly what Steve is doing to this beautiful boy.

He slicks his fingers, watching Bucky watch them.

“Try to relax,” Steve instructs. “I’ll be gentle.”

Bucky’s breath is a slow, shuddering thing.

“I know.” He nods and even smiles, the edges wavering. “I trust you.”

Steve’s not worthy of that, he’s sure. But he swallows the praise greedily, hungry for Bucky—for James, for anyone he’s ever been and ever will be—in all possible ways.

He doesn’t just stick his fingers in Bucky. He puts his mouth on his cock instead, grinning around his mouthful when Bucky shouts. His hips strain, trying to buck up into Steve’s mouth, but he pins them to the bed with his dry hand. Bucky’s not weak, exactly, but Steve’s monstrously strong and it barely takes any effort to keep him where he wants him. Bucky’s not unaffected, judging by the string of curses he spews.

Steve takes Bucky deeper, enjoying the weight of him on his tongue, and slides his fingers between Bucky’s cheeks. It’s a tried and true technique, and it doesn’t fail Steve now. Bucky doesn’t tense until Steve’s got a finger circling his hole and even then, he’s quick to relax when that’s all Steve does, touching him there with wet, gentle fingers while he sucks his cock. Bucky’s leaking, the salt of him rich on Steve’s tongue, and the hard line of him doesn’t flag even when Steve pushes in with the tip of his finger.

Bucky whines long and hard. He’s tight, body locking down hard on the intrusion. Steve doesn’t push. He might, if his partner liked it and god, does he love a partner who likes it, but Bucky trusts him to take care of him and Steve wants, more than he’s wanted anything in such a long time, to be good to him. He wants this night to burn itself into Bucky’s blood, so deep that it’ll survive time and magic and mangled souls.

Slowly, in increments of time passed with Steve’s tongue curving around the head of Bucky’s cock and his fingers pressing bruises into the delicate span of his hips, Bucky loosens. Steve takes him inch by precious inch, trying not to go mad at the tight, clutching heat of him. He can’t even imagine putting his cock in there. It would kill him. It would be _so good_.

When he’s knuckle-deep in Bucky’s hole, he lets his cockhead slip free of his mouth and asks, “Alright, Buck?”

Bucky’s got his eyes closed. Steve can see the effort it takes to pry them open and even then, Bucky has to blink a few times to focus. He bites his lips, pearly teeth digging harshly into his swollen lower lip.

Ever so gently, Steve crooks his fingers inside Bucky, who gasps with his whole body.

“Tell me how it feels, honey,” Steve croons.

“Good,” Bucky rasps, “it’s good, I—weird, I can’t even, I—it’s good.”

He’s panting by the end, breath forced out of him by nothing but this.

“Ssh, it’s alright. Breathe, honey. There we go.”

Bucky closes his eyes again, tossing his head back. His insides cling blood-hot to Steve’s finger when he draws it out, trying in vain to pull it back inside. Steve likes this, the feverish clasp of a body stretched around him.

He fucks Bucky lazily with that finger for a while, watching his face instead of sucking him again. His cock stays hard and dripping wet, and that tells Steve enough about how he’s liking it.

“Please,” Bucky gasps, and Steve can’t tell, between his straining hips and clenching ass, whether Bucky wants his mouth or another finger. So he gives him both.

Bucky keens when Steve prods at his hole with two fingers, the sound breaking into a cry when Steve takes his cock deep, angling his head to let it slide easily down his throat. Steve doesn’t have much of a gag reflex, and he likes this, Bucky drunk on pleasure and shaking for him, because of him. He works his fingers into Bucky, and he’s clamping tight again, but he takes it well. And he makes the sweetest noises the whole time, a little like he’s dying, like Steve’s killing him.

When Steve sneaks an upward glance, he finds Bucky with both hands clutching tufts of his own hair, dark strands peeking out from between his fingers. He’s staring at Steve with wide, wild eyes, half like he can’t believe the sight.

Steve puts on a little show for him, sucking Bucky wet and sloppy, tongue curling around the head and dipping into the slit. He licks his lips, winks, and angles his fingers in search of that little bundle of nerves. He finds it, and Bucky’s glorious, arching off the bed with a scream.

“Sensitive,” Steve murmurs, half to himself, entranced by Bucky’s heaving chest and bared teeth.

“St— _Steve_.”

It’s a whimper, quiet for lack of air. Bucky gasps soundlessly, and he looks helpless, desperate, everything Steve wants to set his mouth to and devour.

“I’ve got you,” Steve says, and he means it, and he doesn’t say he wants to keep this, but he thinks it and means that too.

He loses track of how much time he spends there, sprawled between Bucky’s legs. It could be hours, could be eons. Bucky comes in his mouth, seconds after Steve eases the tip of a third finger into him. Steve swallows every drop and licks him clean, mouthing at the soft curve of him until Bucky’s whines gain a pained edge. He lets go and offers to stop for the night, but Bucky shakes his head and begs so pretty, and Steve’s only a man in the end.

And Bucky doesn’t have Steve’s serum-laced libido, but he’s young and eager, and his cock fills up by the time Steve’s got him riding four fingers.

He makes the mistake of straightening to just watch Bucky squirm on his hand, cock heavy against his thigh. Sheer, visceral need erupts in him, bowling him over with its intensity. Every shred of desire that he pushed aside to focus on Bucky’s pleasure rears its head, eating at his insides until the whole of him in a throbbing pillar of frustrated heat.

Maybe it shows. Maybe Bucky’s aching too, yanked to the edge and kept there by Steve’s slow, careful breach of his body.

“Please,” he whines, _begs_ , again and again, like he can’t stop now that he started, “please, please, now, Steve, please, now, _please_ —”

“Y-yes, fuck, yeah, Buck, I’ll—”

His hands shake when he slicks up his dick. Bucky whines when Steve takes his legs and drapes them over his shoulders, and his thighs tremble with the strain when Steve leans over him, bodies close and burning together.

“This fine?” he asks, looming over Bucky. “Too much?”

Bucky shakes his head. His eyes are almost wholly black, the blue barely a suggestion at the edges.

“S’good,” he gasps. “Give—give me, please, Steve.”

Steve would give him everything, if he could.

“Breathe for me,” he says, guiding himself to that warm, wet place, groaning when he encounters a telltale resistance. “Relax, sweetheart, ssh. Let me in.”

Bucky’s gasping for breath, wound tight under Steve, but he’s trying too, hips jerking as he tries to bear down on Steve’s cock.

It slips inside, the head sliding past the wet, hot clutch of Bucky’s rim. Stars burst in Steve’s vision, and it’s all he can do to not just slam deep and take everything that’s offered. He wants to, _Christ_ , he wants to, but he wants to be good to this boy, good for him. He stays stock still, fancying he can feel Bucky’s pulse inside the clenching heat of his body.

He kisses Bucky, wet and clumsy, lips catching his chin, their teeth knocking together. Bucky moans into it, kissing back just as hard and sloppy, and Steve doesn’t let their lips part even as he pushes in and in and _in_ , and Bucky takes it, takes him, tearing open bloody trails down Steve’s back.

Bucky’s the one to break the kiss, turning his face to the side and panting open-mouthed. Steve latches on to the inviting stretch of his throat, mouthing at a bruise he made. It makes Bucky cry out, or maybe that’s for the cock that pushes a last millimeter into him, taking everything and then some more.

“Steve,” Bucky cries, soft and whimpering. “So much, it’s so much, Steve.”

“Ssh, I know, Buck, you’re doing so good. Feel so—so good, honey.”

The words aren’t enough. Steve doesn’t know how to tell Bucky that he’s a searing vice around Steve’s cock, wet and warm and _maddening_ , that every second spent inside him sinks vicious hooks into Steve’s gut. Bucky’s so small like this, pinned under Steve’s bulk and stretched to breaking around his girth. It’s killing him, tearing him right open, and he wants to move, fuck in deep and take, and he wants to never move, just stay like this, the two of them warm and connected.

The deep scratches Bucky opened on his back oozes blood and twinges, healing already. Steve shudders when Bucky’s palm slides over one of them, slick with sweat. There would be dried blood under Bucky’s fingernails. Steve’s blood. He likes that.

“Steve.”

The wounded whisper of his name makes Steve look at Bucky’s face. It’s twisted into an expression that could be pleasure, could be agony, but when he opens his eyes, open his mouth, what Bucky says is, “Move, c’mon, please, I want to feel it, please.”

Steve’s weak to pleas spilling from Bucky’s lips, easy for the desperate light in his dark eyes.

He braces himself with one arm on the bed and grabs Bucky’s hair with the other, keeping him in place for a quick, hard kiss. Bucky tries to chase his mouth, but he doesn’t get far, not with Steve’s grip and how the movement jolts the delicate connection between their bodies. Bucky shouts, lips trembling, eyes wet, and Steve tries to pull that noise out of him again with a dirty grind, rolling his hips into Bucky’s heated clutch. Bucky sucks in a trembling breath and chokes on it on the exhale, Steve’s name fluttering half-realized in his throat. He’s pretty, so pretty, blushing and bruised and all Steve’s.

Steve tells him that, filthy praise spilling unchecked from his lips. Bucky doesn’t hear it at first, dazed and panting, and then he does, eyes widening, wordless gasps turning into high-pitched keening. Steve licks the sound off his lips, the echo of it shuddering down his spine. It drives him deeper into Bucky, and Steve doesn’t pull away this time, doesn’t struggle for better leverage, just seals his mouth over Bucky’s and drinks his breath while his hips follow their own rhythm.

And Bucky—Bucky’s a dream, sweet and soft and warm and dirty, rising to meet the plunge of Steve’s cock and sobbing sweetly against his mouth. Steve wants to eat him alive, wants to break his ribs open and slide Bucky into himself for safekeeping. Steve’s never loved easy, less messy, and he doesn’t know if it’s love for this spitfire kid that’s ripping into him, but he doesn’t know what else to call it.

“Steve,” Bucky cries like he’s breaking, nails sunk into Steve’s skin, thighs shaking on his shoulder.

“I’m here, hush, honey, what do you need?”

Bucky tosses his head to the side, hiding his wet eyes and swollen mouth, and Steve presses sweet kisses to his jaw, his cheek, the shell of his ear. He slows his thrusts, gives it to him slow and long, and Bucky’s whole body tightens with a whine, but Steve’s no less affected, seeing red as the vice-clench of muscles around him spears through his gut, crawls up his spine. All of him is reduced to where he’s buried in Bucky, pulsing along some inches of hard flesh. Bucky surrounds him, his scent and his heat, Steve wants to breathe him deep and swallow him whole.

He sets his teeth to a delicate earlobe instead, kissing where he bit to soothe Bucky’s faint whimper.

“Come like this,” he murmurs, mouth open and hot against Bucky’s cheek. “Just like this. Can you do that, Buck?”

Bucky makes a sound that might have been meant as a laugh, but it comes out wrecked and sobbing. Steve’s name is there, buried in loud, frantic exhales, and he has to kiss him then, drink it all in, and Bucky lets him, mouth falling open even as his ass tightens brutally around Steve. Bucky sobs into Steve’s mouth, and he’s close, Steve can tell. His cock’s a weeping mess between their bodies, rubbing up against Steve’s belly when he presses down on Bucky with carefully controlled pressure, and he could touch it, take it in hand and stroke Bucky to completion, but he’s selfish, now, and wants this, Bucky unraveling on nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the plunge of his cock.

“Just like this,” Steve echoes, feeling lazy, ravenous. “Come for me, honey.”

Bucky keens.

Steve takes pity on him. He hitches Bucky’s hips higher and slams into him, and he’s careful to curate his strength, careful to keep an eye on Bucky for signs of displeasure, but it only takes a single, savage thrust for Bucky to go _wild_.

He’s got little leverage, pinned and fucked full, but god, he tries, writhing and arching, driving his body against Steve like he can’t ever get enough. Steve gives it to him, and it’s a double-edged sword because Bucky’s hot and tight and pulsing, and it drives Steve mad with want.

“Ste- _Steve_!”

Bucky wails, head thrown back, and that’s all the warning Steve gets before Bucky clamps down hard on his cock.

He sees white.

There’s wetness between them, warm on his belly, his chest, a drop or two on his throat, but it’s the rippling heat around his cock that pulls Steve over the edge. Steve slams in deep, hips driving into Bucky’s hard enough to bruise, and lets go, Bucky’s cries still ringing in his head.

He buries a shout in Bucky’s shoulder and shudders violently through his orgasm, seeking solace in Bucky’s body heaving under him. Bucky’s making noises low in his throat, soft, helpless things that squirm under Steve’s skin.

He pulls out so he won’t collapse on Bucky and crush him with his weight, topping gracelessly to the side. He looks, then, at Bucky. He’s a sorry sight in the sweetest sense—hair in disarray, flushed all over, splattered in come. Steve smooths his palm over one shaking thigh, savoring Bucky’s gutted moan. Sweat slicks the soft skin under his hand; Steve curves his fingers into the inside of Bucky’s thigh, gently groping the delicate skin there. Creeping further up, his fingers meet a wetness that’s not a thin layer of sweat. He follows it to his source.

“ _Steve_!”

Bucky sounds almost scandalized, but he doesn’t stop Steve. Spreads his legs even, almost unconsciously welcoming Steve deeper.

His hole is puffy and wet. Steve rubs his thumb gently over it. He wants to bad to push it in, feel how soft and warm Bucky is inside, but he doesn’t, conscious of how that sensation can be so sharp as to hurt.

Bucky just trembles under his touch. It’s a good look on him, even as it drives Steve a little crazy.

“You alright, honey?” he asks. His voice is thick with want and pleasant exhaustion. Bucky turns his head and looks at him. His expression is dazed, eyes half closed and lips gently parted, and Steve can see how he has to try to focus on Steve’s face.

“Are you alright?” Steve repeats, using the hand not buried between Bucky’s legs to touch his face, brushing a few strands of hair out of his eyes. “You need anything?”

Bucky blinks a few times. A slow, hazy smile creeps across his lips.

“No,” he says, a hushed mumble. “No, I’m—wow. God. Wow.”

Steve doesn’t puff up like a caveman, but it’s a close call. He preens quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky huffs, laughing. “Think you broke me. But yeah.”

Steve presses his fingers a little more firmly against Bucky’s hole. It gives easily, open and well-used, but the soft heat of it isn’t quite as compelling as the stunned shock on Bucky’s face.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, god.”

Steve doesn’t torment him much. But he likes the conflict on Bucky’s face when he pulls his hand away, the blend of regret and relief. He curls his fingers around the softest part of Bucky’s thigh for a firm, claiming squeeze.

Bucky takes in a shuddering breath.

And he moves, sharp and sudden, almost crashing into Steve. It takes Steve a second to gather his scattered brain cells and realize this is the most aggressive cuddling session he’s been subjected to, then another to get with the program and wrap both arms around Bucky.

They’re messy, sticky with sweat and worse. Steve doesn’t mind and damn if he’s going to push Bucky away, not when he’s trying his best to worm his way into Steve’s flesh. He calms a little when Steve starts stroking his hair with the hand not covered in dried lube and come.

Bucky says something, but his mouth is smushed to Steve’s chest and even superhearing doesn’t let him understand those mangled syllables.

“Hmm?’

Bucky’s quiet for a long time.

“Thank you,” he says, once Steve has half-forgotten the question. “For—for that. For making it good.”

“I—of course.” Steve’s a little stunned, with emotions swirling in his chest that he doesn’t have words for. “I wanted to, Buck. Wasn’t some sacrifice.”

“It was good for you too?” Bucky asks, sound torn between pride and genuine doubt.

“Best I’ve ever had, honey,” Steve tells him honestly. “Thank _you_.”

Bucky meeps and makes another attempt to crawl into Steve, who holds him tighter, tangling their limbs until it’s hard to know where one begins and the other ends. Bucky melts into him, tension leeching out of his body. Steve buries his face in Bucky’s damp hair, breathing in the scent of shampoo and sweat. It’s nice to just stay like that. Steve doesn’t sleep, but he drifts with his eyes wide open, thoughts swimming aimlessly around his head.

Bucky’s heart beats its steady rhythm.

-

It’s past three by the time Steve cleans them both up and slides under the covers beside Bucky, who’s not asleep but also spent the last several minutes mimicking a flopping fish while Steve tried to mop up the mess they made. It was more adorable than it had any right to be and now, when Bucky grins guilelessly at him, Steve’s heart throbs like a fresh bruise.

He leans in for a chaste kiss, lingering on the soft smile there, breathing Bucky’s breath.

When he pulls back, the look on Bucky’s face is the one Steve saw in the mirror a minute ago. He averts his eyes, lying down and pulling Bucky close.

Long moments pass in silence, and it would be easy to think that Bucky has fallen asleep. His breaths are slow and long, his body lax in Steve’s arms. But Steve knows he’s not asleep. The air between is thick with words unsaid.

Bucky, braver than Steve, is the first to speak.

“It’s not really my first time, is it?”

“Buck?”

It’s not that Steve doesn’t understand. He just doesn’t want to.

Bucky’s mouth curves up against Steve’s shoulder. When he draws back, the smile he’s wearing is sad but true.

“I’m not really…real, am I?”

“Of course you’re real.”

“But I’m not,” Bucky says, calmer than Steve expects him to be. “I’m not going to wake up back in Shelbyville with my family and remember all this. Remember you. I’ll just be gone.”

Steve silently, viciously, curses Tony and Strange and everything they told Bucky, the half-lies and full truths. He’s a little pissed at Bucky too, for being so fucking smart. But that doesn’t last past the initial torrent of impotent rage.

If Bucky can sense the turn of Steve’s thoughts, he doesn’t show it, speaking instead with the same, manufactured calm as before.

“And the me, the one that was real—he had his firsts and a whole life without ever knowing you. Didn’t he?”

“You do know me,” Steve says weakly. “James—”

“Isn’t really me,” Bucky cuts in. “I’d never go by James, are you kidding. And it was obvious, you know? I just couldn’t see it. You and—and everyone there, Stark and Strange and the scary lady who smiled at me—I didn’t get it then, but now I do. He’s not me, and I’m not him, and it’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Steve allows. It’s a wonder that his voice is steady. “But we’re used to weird, all of us.”

Bucky snorts.

“I can believe that.”

He says nothing else, and Steve is left with everything he said looping in his head. It makes him shake.

“You’re real,” he bites out. He’s clutching Bucky a little too hard, and he tries to ease his grip, turn it gentle. “Whatever magic this is, doesn’t matter. You’re still real. This still happened. These last few days are as real as any I’ve lived.”

Bucky’s expression cracks then. The careful calm melts away, leaving behind a terrified boy.

“You’ll remember me,” he says, voice shaking like he’s trying not to scream. “Even if—when—after I’m gone. You’ll remember me.”

“Until the day I die,” Steve promises. He means very word.

“Will he remember?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t clarify who, but he doesn’t need to.

Steve wants, more than anything, to lie. It would be kind. But Bucky’s eyes are wide and desperate, asking for the truth, and Steve has, from the start, been helpless not to give him what he wants.

“I don’t know.”

Bucky doesn’t look surprised. Scared and resigned, yes, but not surprised.

“You’ll remember,” he repeats like a mantra.

“I will. You’re real. This is real. It always will be.”

“As long as you remember me,” Bucky says, “I’m real.”

That’s not quite what Steve meant. But it’s clear what Bucky needs.

“Yes. And I’ll remember you forever.”

“Okay.” Bucky draws in a short, sobbing breath. His face is wet with tears. “Okay, that’s—that’s good.”

“Come here.”

Bucky limply lets Steve pulls him close again. He’s shaking, sobs shuddering down his body as tears soak Steve’s skin.

“I’m scared,” he says. “I don’t want to go.”

Steve holds him tighter.

“You’re here,” is all he knows to say. “You’re here, Buck. You’re not going anywhere.”

And that—that is a lie. But Bucky allows it.

He cries himself to sleep, the wracking sobs turning into quiet whimpers turning into silent tears. Steve distantly wonders how long this has been building. He thinks of Bucky, stubbornly cheerful, basking in the future, chasing pleasure. He always knew, Steve’s sure. In the back of mind, he could hear that ticking clock.

Steve could too. He just tuned it out. Bucky helped. He wishes he could help Bucky. He hopes he did, at least a little, that Bucky could forget, tangled in Steve’s flesh.

“I’ll remember,” Steve says gently to a boy who can’t hear him. Sleep is dragging at his lids too, but Steve’s hesitant to give in. He knows, logically, that Bucky’s not going to vanish from his arms as he sleeps. They don’t know when the spell will wear off, only that it will. It could be days; it could be months.

He'll wake up tomorrow, and Bucky will be right here in his bed, and Steve will kiss him awake and make love to him. He’ll repeat his promise against every inch of Bucky’s skin.

-

He wakes up alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream at me 😇

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [collab: voxofthevoid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361448) by [kocuria-visuals (kocuria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals)




End file.
